I stare out at the itch-black night, but the grimy little window just reflects my face back at me. But tonight my brain cells are staying stubbornly unscrambled and unnumbed. We used to blast it whenever we were angry or depressed or frustrated with the world-which was a lot toward the end. I turn up the volume on my iPod and scroll to the heavy metal playlist Mom downloaded for me: all of her favorite songs for scrambling the brain and numbing the mind. If something can go wrong, it does, and anything bad just gets worse. It shouldn’t be called Murphy’s Law, it should be called Delaney Collins’s Law, because I’m living it. My overhead light’s burned out and the bald guy in front of me dropped his diet Dr Pepper, splashing sticky soda all over my backpack, which I had wedged under the seat. The cushion’s deflated in this bizarrely lopsided way, like somebody with one butt cheek exponentially bigger than the other sat there before me and crushed it. Of course I’m cursed with the most uncomfortable seat on the plane.
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